My Only Love (25 page)

"Then
perhaps you should allow him to take the risk. He can afford failure. You
cannot."

Miles
glared down into Olivia's stubborn face.

"Think
of it this way," she said a bit tauntingly. "With the money you could
make off the sale of the mines, you wouldn't need to remain married to me. You
would have sufficient funds to pay off your debts and live handsomely for the
remainder of your days, as long as you stay away from the gambling halls, of
course."

"Good
God," he muttered. "I hadn't thought of that."

Olivia
swallowed.

They
stood in the center of the room, vaguely hearing the rain spatter against the
window and the increasing sound of drunken revelers from the tavern below.

"Well,"
he finally stated, his mouth a sardonic curl. "Seems you've given me something
to think about for the remainder of the evening."

Despite
the surge of despair that shot through Olivia's heart, she did her best to
focus on Miles's ruggedly handsome features and refused to allow him, even for
an instant, to see that she'd been shaken to her naked toes by her own stupid
comment.

At
last, he moved around her, swept up the whisky bottle from the table, and
walked to the door. Without turning to face him, she said, "Miles."

He
stopped.

"I
believe we are to meet Messieurs Delaney and Wallace at half past seven in the
morning?" "Right."

"That
should give us both time to come to a decision." "Both?"

"You
must decide what is more important to you: your freedom and enough money to
live comfortably for the rest of your life, should you decide to sell to
Lubinsky. Or you risk the chance that I won't agree to finance the restoration
of these mines."

"Either
way, it looks like I lose," he said. Then he stepped from the room,
closing the door behind him.

Olivia
stood rooted to the floor, acknowledging the chill that was creeping into the
room since the coals in the brazier had diminished mostly to ash. Then she fell
onto the bed and drove a fist into her pillow.

Clare knew that she
loved him—every curve of her form

showed that—but he did
not know at that time the full depth

of her devotion, its
single-mindedness, its meekness, what

long-suffering it
guaranteed, what honesty, what endurance,

what good faith.

—Thomas Hardy,

Tess oj the d'Urbervilks

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Miles
stood at the window with his hands in his pockets, watching the two dozen men
and their families crowded near the entry to the White Horse Inn. It was almost
time to join them. He didn't look forward to the task. Not after yesterday—and
his wife's interference.

He
took a deep breath and prepared to join them. Just as he was about to leave the
room, there came a tap on the door. Before he could answer, the door opened and
Olivia walked in, her step hesitant. Miles noted that she looked more than a
little pale; there were circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. The dress
she'd worn throughout the last two days was sorely in need of washing, but, as
usual, she wore it as neatly as possible.

"Good
morning, sir," she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Miles
relaxed against the windowsill and raised one eyebrow. "Olivia."

"I
trust you spent a restful night?"

He
shrugged. "And you?"

"Excellent,
thank you."

Looking
deeply into her eyes, he wondered if she were lying. He'd never known a woman
who could so adeptly hide her thoughts and emotions. It was almost frightening—this
lack of predictability.

"I
suppose we each must now make a decision regarding our future," she said.

"I
suppose."

"You
sell out to Lubinsky, or you risk the possibility that I won't agree to finance
the mines' restorations." "Yes."

She
continued to stare up at him, her shoulders back and her hands loosely clasped
before her as she waited. Seconds ticked by while the voices outside the window
grew louder and more impatient. Christ, he thought. She would make one hell of
a card player. Most women would be a bundle of emotions at that
moment—especially a woman in her position, whose possibly only chance to offer
herself and her son a future hinged on whether or not he decided his freedom
was more important to him than the mines ... or marriage to her. She'd been
absolutely right the night before—by marrying her, he'd sold his soul. By
selling the mines, he sold his dreams. Which, he wondered, would be the lesser
of two indignities?

"I'm
not selling the mines," he said softly.

Olivia
didn't blink.

"I
said ..." Miles turned away from Olivia. "I'm not selling the mines.
I'll make a go of it with or without your help."

For
a moment, Olivia did not respond, then she said quietly, "Agreed, sir.
The mines will continue to operate .. ." Miles frowned as she moved to
join him, her big green eyes locked on his. "The mines will continue to
operate," she continued, "and you can be guaranteed that no money
will be spared in the renovation and updating of the mines. I'll do everything
possible to help you."

"As
long as you can control—"

"No.
Perhaps we'll simply consider my financial help as ... a loan. When you hit
that new vein, I'll expect to be paid back with interest."

"You
could lose everything, Olivia."

She
shrugged. "Or gain a great deal. Life's choices are a constant gamble, are
they not, husband? The trick is to hold on to your faith that all will turn out
for the best. Without hope, and the belief in our dreams, what dreary
existences we would all lead."

Olivia,
somewhat hesitantly, placed her hand on his arm, and smiled up into his
intense, watchful eyes. What emotions did she see reflected there? "Your
employees are waiting, sir."

"You'll
be joining me, of course."

"I
think not. I'm quite certain you can adequately deal with the situation. Simply
inform them that no money will be spared in the mines' renovations and
improvements. Perhaps you should also tell them that a wage increase will begin
at once. Hurry, sir. I'll wait here for their response."

By
late afternoon they were finally in sight of Braithwaite Hall. The ride from
Gunnerside had been wet and cold. Miles's horse had come up lame and they'd
been slowed to a walk the last five miles home.

Just
outside Middleham they bid Damien goodbye and rode the last few miles to
Braithwaite in silence. So far, she hadn't managed to work up the courage to
tell him about the renovations she'd made to his house during his absence.
Since their awkward meeting that morning, conversation had been strained.

They
stopped at the front door. Miles caught Perlagal's bridle and looked up at
Olivia. The heavy humidity had caused his dark hair to curl riotously. His
cheeks were kissed by cold. His jaw flexing with suppressed irritation, he
moved up beside her, wrapped his hands about her waist and swung her from the
saddle, plopping her hard on her feet.

The
door was flung open in that moment, spilling light over the front steps; warmth
washed over them in a welcome wave. A tall, thin stranger filled up the entranceway,
dressed in a black suit and crisp white shirt. His thinning gray hair was swept
back from his forehead, and he looked at Miles down a sizable beaked nose.

"Good
God," Miles muttered under his breath, then mounted the stairs until he
stood toe to toe with the man. "Who the blazes are you?" Miles
demanded.

"The
butler, of course. And who, may I ask, are you?"

Miles
slowly pivoted on his heel to stare down at Olivia, who peered at him with wide
eyes over the withers of her horse. He crooked his finger at her. She shook her
head.

"Come
here," he ordered her.

"Madame
Warwick!" cried a voice from within the house. Miles moved aside as
Jacques Dubois rushed through the doorway, chef's hat bobbing up and down and
his clothes smelling like fresh baked bread. "Madame Warwick, what a great
pleasure to welcome you home."

Olivia
chewed her lip and watched Miles' s face go from dumbstruck to incredulous.
Jacques kissed her hand, then gently escorted her up the steps. "You are
just in time for supper. I have prepared my specialties: almond soup, pomflet,
quenelles of partridge, and for dessert, lemon pudding. It is magnifique, oui?
Ahh!" Tugging her toward the rigid majordomo, he offered her a hopeful if
not apologetic smile. "Madame will be pleased to meet my cousin Armand.
Hopefully you will consider him to remain butler—he is very experienced, you
know. He worked for ten years in the Tuileries."

"Oh."
She focused on the butler's face and refused to so much as glance toward
Warwick.

Armand
tapped his heels together and slightly bowed at the waist, then he turned his
attention back to Miles, adequately barring his way into the house. "And
who, sir, might you be?"

"Warwick,"
Miles said in a hoarse whisper.

Armand's
eyebrows went up and his expressionless eyes swept Miles in a glance, from the
top of his wet head to the bottom of his muddied Hessians. He addressed Olivia
without turning. "Shall I call for the footman, madame?"

"I
don't have a footman," Miles said smoothly.

"Yes
you do," Armand replied.

"No
I don't."

"Yes
you do," Jacques joined in, nodding so vigorously that his hat flopped
over his forehead, then stepping into the well-lit foyer, he clapped his hands
and cried, "Gustavea!" Shrugging, he laughed and added, "He is
Armand's son, ouil"

A
skinny young man scrambled up the corridor, smoothing his overly large livery
coat and stumbling slightly in boots that were too big for his feet. He spoke
not a word of English, but babbled excitedly at Armand, who babbled back and
pointed to Miles's muddy boots with an air of distaste.

Miles
narrowed his eyes and stepped around the butler, into the foyer where scaffolds
and ladders adorned the walls and tins of paint, brushes, hammers, and saws
littered the floor. Workmen moved about the house like ants. His hands clenched.
His shoulders grew tense, his face thunderously dark.

'That
will be all," Olivia said to the curious servants, then held her breath as
they dispersed without a word.

"What
the hell is going on here?" Miles demanded.

"You
aren't pleased?"

"I
s'pose you thought you'd just take over the old place while I was gone."
"I_"

"Just
who the hell gave you the right to come into my house and drive one goddamn
nail into my goddamn walls without my goddamn permission?"

"You're
so accustomed to lording it over Devonswick, including your father and sister,
that you thought you'd do the same here."

He
moved toward her. She backed away.

"Well?"
he shouted. I "You needn't raise your voice—"

"Just
who the hell do you think is going to pay for all this?"

Raising
her chin, she replied calmly, "Why me, of course."

One
eyebrow shot up. "You," he finally replied in a sneering, slightly
caustic monotone. "Of course. How could I forget? You're the one with the
money. The power. The influence. I'm simply the beggar with his hand out."

They
glared at one another, Olivia thinking he looked red-faced enough with anger
that the top of his head might go shooting toward the ceiling just any minute,
and Miles thinking she looked as if she'd just taken an overzealous bile of a
green persimmon.

"It's
quite obvious," Olivia began in a more controlled tone, "that if this
lack of appreciation is any indication of what marriage to you will be like, I
don't think I'll care for it."

He
stared at her.

She
proffered Warwick a thin smile and moved toward the stairs. "What the
blazes are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm
retiring to my room, of course."